


Whatever's in Between That I Call Mine

by lirin



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Endgame Final Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: The streets are full of people celebrating their return from dust—and Christine Palmer is standing on the doorstep of the Sanctum Sanctorum.





	Whatever's in Between That I Call Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [River_Song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/River_Song/gifts).

The streets of New York are packed with people. They're screaming, crying, laughing—Strange had thought everything would have calmed down a bit by now; after all, it's been hours since Banner's snap brought everyone back. But as it is, he mentally reproaches himself for not bothering to open a portal directly into the Sanctum instead of two streets away, and he pushes his way through the crowds.

In front of the Sanctum Sanctorum, the crowd is just as thick and bustling as it is everywhere else, but there's one person in the crowd who isn't moving. "Christine?" Strange murmurs as he wends closer. "Christine, what are you doing here?"

"I figured you were one of the ones who got dusted," she says, standing there on the doorstep like she belongs there, "since you disappeared so completely for the last five years. So since it looks like everybody's been brought back—well, I hope it's everybody—I thought maybe you might be back, too. And in case you were, I thought I'd see if you needed help." She reaches forward, touches his temple gently. It's bruised and dirty, and probably bloody too, he doesn't remember. There'd been so many other things to think about. "Are you going to put anything on that cut?" she asks. "Do you have a first aid kit around here somewhere?"

"We don't need first aid kits, we have magic," he says as he unravels the wards on the front door and steps inside. It looks almost the same as he remembers it; Wong's done a good job of fixing the place up after the Bifrost tore a hole in it.

Christine is right behind him. "Well, lucky for you," she says, "I suspected as much, so I brought one with me. You should put something on that cut."

"I don't—"

"You have magic, yes, yes, you said that already," she says. She pulls out a shiny metal case with a bright red cross on the front, and starts emptying the contents all over the ancient wood carvings of the Table of Eleutherium. "So since, despite your magic, you still have a cut on your face, can I put some antibiotics on it, or do they, I don't know, block magic or something?" She doesn't wait for an answer, but snaps gloves onto her hands, tears open a antiseptic wipe, and presses her fingers against his cheek to tip his head towards her.

He flinches at the touch. In his defense, the last several times someone was trying to touch him, they were using a weapon to do it (not to mention that they were trying to kill him), but he doesn't like the way her face goes pale and tight. The Cloak reaches out and pats Christine on the shoulder. Strange sighs. "Go ahead," he says, and after a pause, he adds, "I'm sorry." He's not exactly sure what he's apologizing for—for flinching, or for the fact that she had to live through the last five years, or just because he needs to say it to somebody and Stark isn't here to hear it. She nods, and then they both stand there in silence as she cleans the cut and puts antibiotic ointment on it.

Once she's finished, she starts packing the first aid kit back up. "So, what's next?" she asks.

"I don't know what's next," he says. "I didn't look that far ahead. In each potential future, I only watched far enough to see what happened to Thanos and the stones, and then I moved on to the next possible timeline."

"Of course you did," she says. She leans her hands on the table—probably leaving fingerprints on the carvings but if it survived the Hulk falling through the ceiling then he supposes there's not much it can't survive—and laughs. "You looked at the future. Multiple futures. Why should I even be surprised at that, anymore?" She snaps the first aid kit shut and turns around to face him. "But all I meant was, where do we go from here? Is this...this Thanos, is he defeated then? All the people who came back, are they back to stay?"

He nods. "It was the only way that he could be defeated, but it's all over and done now."

"Was there a battle? Does anyone else need medical attention? What about the people who came back from dust? I texted Nick and he said they've been running every test they can think of on some of the people who've come back and that everything looks normal so far, but is there something we aren't thinking of? You know more about this than we do."

"I really don't," he says. "I believe everyone who was actually injured during the battle is being taken care of. "This"—he gestures at his forehead—"is nothing. I'd forgotten I'd been injured at all, frankly. As for the people who've come back, they all looked normal to me, but anybody who's been running scans or tests knows more than you or I on that point."

"I should probably go over there and find out what they've learned," she says. "Though there's probably plenty of other researchers looking into this all over the globe. This _is _happening all over the globe, isn't it?"

"Not that I've actually been all over the globe, but yes," he says. "It's going to be okay," he adds, and he's pretty sure he means it. Until the next galactic threat, at least. Hopefully there will be at least a few years of peace before another one of those crops up, though.

They're both at loose ends now, standing there by the Table of Eleutherium, now that the first aid kit is all packed up and neither of them seems inclined to discuss Thanos further. "Christine—" Strange says, and "I'd better—" she says at the same time. He gestures for her to speak first.

"I told the scheduler I might be able to come in for an extra shift this evening. I didn't want to promise, since I didn't know how long I'd be waiting here. But they're short handed, with all the extra people coming in. And since my life-saving work here is done"—she taps his cheek gently, staying far enough from the cut as not to aggravate it—"I should probably go."

"Go, save more people," he tells her, and leads the way to the door. It feels as if there's so much unsaid, and yet he can't think of anything to say. "You know, you're welcome here any time," he blurts out. "I know it's nothing like the places we used to hang out in, but maybe we can start something new."

"You know I never much liked Neurological Society dinners anyway," she says, and smiles slightly. "Maybe I will." She leans forward, tips her head up, and kisses him gently. "I'm glad you're back."

"I'm glad to be back," he says, smiling in return. Not that he'd particularly noticed being away. It seems just yesterday that he was wandering through those fourteen million possible futures, and now their one true future has already come to fruition. He hasn't even slept yet. (Though come to think of it, he could probably stand to get some sleep.)

Christine leaves, and the door swings shut behind her. Strange stands there for a minute, remembering. She'd looked good. A bit out of place, but then most visitors to an ancient sanctuary in the middle of New York City aren't exactly going to be wearing clothes that match the atmosphere. Lucky people, their clothes probably don't ask anything of them, either—but as for Strange's own attire, it's tugging insistently at his shoulders, pulling him towards the rebuilt staircase.

"Fine, fine," he tells the Cloak. "Let's see what Wong's done with the place in our absence."


End file.
